


A Sky Without Stars

by drspacey



Series: The Trials of St Emily [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Dishonored 2, F/F, F/M, High Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Emily Kaldwin, More angst, Politics, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9329039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drspacey/pseuds/drspacey
Summary: The throne Emily Kaldwin reclaims is not the same one she left behind - nor is she the same Empress who fled it all those months ago. Though she brought Karnaca back from the brink, Dunwall's future remains uncertain.Between a powerful Abbey determined to eliminate any remaining trace of heresy and a fascinating god figure haunting her dreams, she must do all she can to ensure her second chance at being Empress won't be her last.





	1. The First Step is Always the Hardest

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to estora, mostly because she made me write this with her.
> 
> Archive warnings and rating may be changed/added later.

Corvo Attano was never going to leave without a fight.

"Emily," he said for the tenth time that day, a growl in his tone and fear in his eyes, "I'm not leaving."

She expected this, of course, but it made things no less difficult. Emily always feared a part of her father died that day on the pavilion; some part of his mind frozen and left behind, a part that prevented him from seeing her as anything other that that terrified ten year old girl in a frilly white dress.

There was a time when she was younger when that exact phrase had been a promise - a reassurance, something he whispered with a gruff voice when she woke up from a nightmare, trapped forever in the room that Havelock locked her in. _I’m not leaving_ , he swore, and her racing heart would steady and the terror at being alone in this world would abate because everything would be all right if her father was there.

The words didn’t calm her anymore.

“Father,” she replied, “we’ve been over this. You have to go. For me.”

“I can’t protect you from Serkonos!” he snaps.

He couldn’t protect her while he was cast in cold marble, either, but he wasn’t seeing Empress Emily Kaldwin the First as he spoke.

Unfortunately for him, the Empress _was_ talking back. “You’re the only person I trust,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t tremble in time with her own heart, skipping out of time. “I need you _there_.”

“And what about _here_ , Emily?”

Ah yes, _here_. The palace where he’d somehow missed an entire coup happening under his nose, had his supernatural abilities torn from his soul, and got himself turned into a stone statue for several months. Emily exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself.

“I think I’ve more than proven myself capable of taking care of myself,” she said gently.

“I’m not saying you aren’t,” he started again, “I’m saying that sending me away is a _mistake_.”

Emily closed her eyes. Was there ever a polite way to tell the person you loved most in the world that they were holding you back? That their love, their protection, brought an Empire to its knees for the second time in fifteen years?

That was unfair, perhaps. Corvo wasn’t responsible for the coup, no more than he was responsible for Jessamine’s death, but he _was_ responsible for keeping her informed about what went on in her Empire, and Delilah had been around for three years, sinking her nails into Karnaca’s rotting body and perverting it to her will before making her move on the capital.

Or maybe Corvo _did_ know something was wrong in Karnaca, and didn’t pass on the information because he thought it was - what? Too boring? Too far away to be of concern? Not immediately relevant to her safety?

_I’m not ten years old anymore, father. You can’t protect me from my duty._

“It’s not a mistake,” she said. “The new council in Serkonos will need a leader. Someone who _hasn’t_ committed treason recently.”

It was, of course, important to keep up the facade even if the Duke was no longer himself. The people of Karnaca had little love for Luca Abele and there was only so much one could blame on witchcraft. Corvo should know that, if he’d been listening at all this past month.

“Serkonos _has_ a leader,” Corvo snapped, not finding her little quip funny in the slightest. “The Empress needs a Royal Protector.”

On some level, she understood - better than anyone else in this world. He watched on helplessly as the woman he loved was murdered by an assassin and his ten-year-old daughter was snatched away with a scream in her throat. It would traumatise anyone to the lengths of overprotectiveness that Corvo aspired to.

But just because she understood didn’t mean he was _right_.

“Lord Attano,” Emily bit out, clenching her left fist behind her back, “the Empire needs an Empress who will lead them, and I cannot do that if you spend the rest of your life trying to babysit me!”

The same expression that was frozen on his stone-hardened face appeared again now. Corvo flinched, his eyes widening with a mixture of hurt and shock from the rude realisation that he was _not_ in control here.

Only this time, instead of Jessamine’s “half-sister” striding up to claim the throne, it was his own daughter telling him she didn’t want him around, and the worst part was she felt wretched because she _didn’t_ feel wretched for doing this to him.

Just utterly terrified.

Emily watched as Corvo struggled with himself. “If it’s really that necessary,” he eventually capitulated, words slow and gritted as though she was forcing him to chew on rocks.

“It is,” Emily said, granite in her tone.

He fumed, but the fire had died down, now just a few bitter embers flickering behind his eyes. “I’ll need time to train a replacement -” he started to say.

More excuses.

“Meagan Foster will be assuming the duties of Royal Protector in your absence,” Emily informed him.

The embers flared briefly again. “Meagan Foster? The ship captain?” he said tightly. “And what makes you think she’s capable?”

“She has…” Emily paused, trying to phrase it delicately. “ _Experience_ in the matter.”

Not delicately enough. Hurt flashed in Corvo’s eyes again - guilt, anger at himself for failing yet another Empress - but this time he said nothing, because while he spent the last three years keeping an eye on her as she went roof-top jumping instead of doing paperwork, Meagan Foster was uncovering a plot against the throne. What was there for Corvo _to_ say?

“And you trust this woman?” he demanded.

“I trust her with my life,” Emily told him, trying to keep the waver out of her voice now.

Not six months ago, it used to be him she trusted her life with. And if she wanted an overprotective father who couldn’t separate his love for her as his daughter and his duty to her as his Empress, then there wouldn’t be any problem.

But she didn’t want that anymore. The coup had made one thing clear: he couldn’t be her father and her Lord Protector at the same time.

There was a time in Emily’s life that she could think of few things worse than upsetting her father, even after Jessamine died. She’d lost one parent to the blade of an assassin; a mother whose smile she would never again see, a laugh like bells and joy that she would never again hear. Corvo kept on ‘dying’ and then miraculously returning, but she dreaded the inevitable day he stayed dead and gone forever and she’d never see his dark, serious eyes light up when he smiled at her, or feel his arms around her as he hugged her after a nightmare.

She supposed some part of herself died that day on the pavilion, too - some part of her always stuck at the age of ten, terrified and screaming for her father to save her. She’d seen fear and grief on his face, but she never wanted to be the one to cause him to feel it. She loved him too much for that.

But an Empress couldn’t afford to place her father’s love above the wellbeing of her people.

_I’m sorry, father._

It didn’t need to be said out loud. He stared at her with wounded eyes and opened his mouth to protest more, but the anger was gone now, in its place only grief and pleading. There was nothing more to say - Emily had won.

“Emily…” he said, voice strained, then he took two long strides towards her and wrapped her in a tight hug, gripping her close as though it was the last time he’d ever get the chance. “You know I love you. More than _anything_ in this world.”

Emily sighed and held him back, feeling every bit of that ten-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than for her father to never leave her side again. “I love you too, father,” she whispered. Then, she put that child away and pulled back from Corvo’s embrace, becoming the Empress once more. “Your ship leaves tomorrow morning, Lord Attano.”

She would see him off personally.

Corvo grasped her hands, staring down at the black covering on her left. For a moment Emily’s heart seemed to freeze in her chest and she almost wrenched her hands away in a blind panic - _can he see -?_ \- but Corvo only sighed and covered her hidden Mark with his own hand that no longer bore it.

“At least they won’t see you coming,” Corvo said, and managed a grim smile.

That was one way of putting it, she supposed.

Corvo kissed her cheek and left without another word.

She tried to imagine her life as Empress without her father by her side. Tried to imagine administering this ruined city, poisoned by Delilah and her coven, without his aid, and that ten-year-old girl locked away inside of her screamed to call Corvo back and tell him to stay.

But she didn’t. Sending him to Serkonos was the right thing to do. He would come to see that too, in time.

There was work she needed to do. A mountain of documents, reports of damage from all around Dunwall, requests for meetings and audiences - but her heart hammered too hard in her chest and she couldn’t ignore her Mark any longer. She flexed her left hand, breathed deeply, and stared down at it.

Corvo hadn’t been able see it - the faint wisps of black smoke seeping out from under the wrappings like dust and ash, relentless since she’d emerged from Delilah’s painting, were invisible to everyone else. With trembling fingers she unravelled the black fabric to see the Mark in full - burning warmly against her skin, and the smoke of the Void swirling from it, wrapping her hand in tendrils of ash.

“What have you done to me, you bastard?” she whispered to the Mark, but there was no reply.

“Empress?”

Emily quickly covered her hand again. No one could see the black smoke, she reassured herself, wrapping the Mark in fabric with a tremor in her blood. No one but herself.

“Yes?” she replied, turning to face the messenger approaching her.

“The Abbess of the Oracular Order is here to see you, my Lady,” the young man said.

“We don’t have an appointment,” Emily replied.

“Yes, my Lady, but she’s most insistent upon having an audience.”

Emily clenched her left fist, feeling the Mark burn ash cold against her skin. _What have you done to me?_

If Corvo was still standing here, he’d probably have intervened and ordered the Abbess away to wait for her appointment like everyone else. 

But that wasn’t Corvo’s place anymore.

“Very well,” Emily said. “Send her in.”


	2. Signs and Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally the first part of a chapter, which was getting too long.

Though Emily had never seen High Oracle Lucetta Strohfeldt in person before, she recognised her immediately. An early Sokolov portrait of her used to hang in the Tower - a fine work of her as a younger woman entitled  _ Oracle Lucetta and her Reciprocal Gaze _ . Emily had no idea where it hung now, or if it even still existed - there was a high chance Delilah’s witches defaced it and used it as kindling - but she could recall it as though she’d seen it yesterday. Anton had obviously seen something remarkable in the then-junior Oracle’s face which captured his imagination and drove him to transpose her likeness to canvas, perfectly capturing the tilt of her jaw and her gaze of marble.

But no painting, however beautiful, could truly do justice to the presence the Abbess of the Oracular Order carried. Though older now than when Anton painted her portrait, her dark skin bore few signs of weathering and she walked with a stride that almost made Emily feel as though  _ she _ ought to be the one to bow, and not the High Oracle to her.

“My Lady Oracle,” Emily greeted, allowing the High Oracle to grasp her hand as she bowed stiffly at the waist. When she straightened, Emily gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “I’m honoured to finally make your acquaintance.”

“Quite,” Strohfeldt replied, sitting across from Emily and folding her hands into her lap. “It’s only taken us fifteen years to have an audience, but I suppose I should be grateful it didn’t take another fifteen.”

“I -” Emily broke off, blinking. “Pardon?”

In the past, Corvo handled most of Emily’s official meetings and briefings with the leaders of the religious and philosophical orders of Dunwall. He made his stance on the Overseers clear; his opinion of the High Oracle, however, was harder to discern. 

“She’s… blunt,” Corvo gruffly explained after Emily asked what the highly respected Abbess of the Oracular Order was like, and left it at that. Emily merely assumed it meant he didn’t like Lucetta Strohfeldt - but then, Corvo didn’t like most people who weren’t Emily, so she put it out of mind and it didn’t occur to her again. 

Now High Oracle Strohfeldt was regarding her coolly. “Coups do tend to put one’s priorities into perspective, do they not?”

“Yes,” Emily agreed carefully, though to what she was agreeing to, she wasn’t entirely sure. “They do. I understand you wished to speak with me.”

“I never  _ wish _ for anything, Your Majesty,” the High Oracle said. “One cannot survive in this world if they hold such insipid and irresolute tendencies towards things such as  _ wishing _ .”

Emily frowned. “But you  _ do _ want to discuss something,” she said, trying to avoid sounding tentative, then immediately felt annoyed with herself. She was the Empress who just spent several months hauling Serkonos back from the bring. She ended Delilah’s reign of terror. She had restored herself to her throne and saved her father - she shouldn’t be  _ intimidated _ by this woman.

“Yes, I do,” the High Oracle said. “I’d like to know why our newly-restored Empress has been hiding in her Tower for a month instead of seeking counsel from the people who held her city together during her absence. I would like to think more than just ensuring she still fits into the seat of her throne.”

Wait.  _ What? _

“I -  _ assure _ you, High Oracle Strohfeldt,” Emily said, affronted, anger swelling in her chest. “I have not been  _ hiding _ . I’m sure you can appreciate that this is a difficult time for everyone, and it hasn’t been all that long since I returned from Serkonos -”

“I imagine you’re almost about to get to the point, Majesty.”

Well, if she’d just let her finish her  _ sentence _ . Emily tried to keep herself calm, steadying her breathing. “Serkonos has been stabilised,” she said firmly. “With Lord Attano there as my representative, trade will finally resume and order will be restored -”

“I’m certain Lord Attano’s appointment will delight his countrymen, but it won’t help the citizens  _ here  _ who lost their homes to the scourge of witchcraft that you ran away from.”

“I didn’t ru-” Emily began to snap, then stopped herself and reigned in her temper. She would  _ not _ sound like a child here. She breathed, steadied herself, and continued in a far more reasonable tone: “Should I have stayed and let myself be executed? Delilah is gone.” She ought to have left it there, but was entirely unable to stop herself from adding, “No thanks to the Overseers.”

This was the wrong thing to say. Strohfeldt’s lips formed a thin, unimpressed line and she sat - if possible - even straighter in her chair, staring down at Emily at the end of her nose as though looming over a bratty child.

“You mean my Brothers in the Abbey who bravely launched an assault against Delilah’s coven in an attempt to save our city and its suffering people?” Strohfeldt demanded. “Hundreds of good men died that day in your name, Empress.”

That was unfair - and since when had the Overseers ever done  _ anything _ in her name? “I didn’t  _ ask _ them to die en masse against an enemy they had no chance of defeating!” she snapped.

“My,” the High Oracle said coolly, “you  _ do _ anger rather easily, don’t you.”

... _ Oh _ . Putting aside that Strohfeldt no doubt had friends amongst the dead, brothers she may have liked and trusted, this was also a woman who had known Empress Jessamine Kaldwin.

And mother would  _ never  _ have snapped at the High Oracle, let alone allow herself to be baited into anger.

Emily breathed in slowly, calming her racing heart, and clenched her burning left hand under the table. “I don’t mean to belittle the efforts of the Overseers,” she said, and surprised herself by being sincere. 

Her mind flashed to the rows of bodies, of strewn Overseer masks lodged in the mud all the way up to the palace, and the High Overseer himself, strung up like a puppet in the middle of the grand entrance, tortured and murdered for the crime of defying Delilah’s tyranny. Her throat tightened. They might have been religious zealots and there was no love lost between her and the Abbey -  _ and _ they only bothered to led a charge against Delilah once they realised she was a witch - but they had still been her citizens. 

“I saw how far they got,” Emily continued. “I saw the High Overseer with my own eyes, what they did to him.”

Strohfeldt’s eyes softened at this, just a little. “Braveness often goes hand in hand with foolishness,” she said. “They were ill-prepared. The slaughter was needless.”

“On that, we can both agree.”

Strohfeldt tilted her jaw up. “You must understand that this city is in dire need of leadership and aid, Empress.”

Ah. That was the purpose of this meeting.

Emily met the Oracle’s reciprocal gaze with one of her own. “I intend to restore both.”

“Intentions are well and good,” the High Oracle said, a cut in her sharp tone, “but they mean little unless followed through.”

“Then -” Emily said, thinking quickly, “may I call upon you for your guidance, High Oracle Strohfeldt?”

The High Oracle observed her for a moment before offering her a very small smile, as though finally finding something in Emily to approve of. “I look forward to our next audience, Empress,” she said.

Emily returned the sentiment, and found it to be - to her surprise -  _ heartfelt _ .


	3. Burning The Pages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen... the moment you've been waiting for... the Imperial Consort herself... Lady Wyman!

 

Breathe that fresh Dunwall air, Wyman thought. There was nothing quite like the delicious smell of blood and steel carried on saltwater air, the taste of smoke and whale oil on her tongue, as she drew in breath to remind her that she was arriving at the heart of the Empire of the Isles. Gristolians did so like to pride themselves on their iron-and-cobble capital on the edge of the ocean, timeless and grand, as though the high-rise towers and the gridded streets and the looming palace over the city was the pinnacle of civilisation itself. 

Wyman had almost hoped that Delilah’s anti-technological attempt at a heretical utopia would bring a  _ hint _ of greenery into the once-thriving city, but Dunwall couldn’t find a silver lining even if it showed up uninvited to a party and murdered the host.

Still.

Before Wyman had left for Morley, the city was at it always had been; grandiose, grim, tension gripping the air, but at least in decent condition. There were still scars left by the rat plague - those would take more than fifteen years to fully erase - but the streets were clear and the financial district drained of the flood waters. Dunwall had almost fully recovered to its pre-plague state, vibrant and flourishing - inasmuch as a city like Dunwall  _ could _ be vibrant and flouring - once more.

Delilah had destroyed all of Emily’s good work.

The witch’s hand was everywhere, and two months was not enough time for recovery efforts to make a discernable improvement to the no man’s land of destruction between the Tower and the rest of the city. Dunwall had always been frighteningly good at partitioning itself and cutting off entire districts like a surgeon would amputate gangrenous limbs, but usually the effect was in reverse. It was horrifying to see the pinnacle of civilisation turn on itself like this.

The sun was choked by a relentless sky of grey clouds, though that was nothing new. What was new were the deep gouges in the buildings around the palace district which could be seen from miles out at sea, the vines that knotted the streets surrounding the Tower, once strewn with the bodies of Overseers and guards, and the smoke that  _ still  _ rose from the smouldering remains of the government building, like a beacon warning all those who dared approach Dunwall to turn away. And it wasn’t just the smell of whale blood and steel carried on the saltwater air, Wyman realised; it was the smell of burnt flesh, emanating from the body pyres still burning. 

It was very tempting to do just that, but whatever fear Wyman experienced at the sight of her beloved’s ruined city was insignificant compared to the way her heart gripped in her chest at the thought of seeing Emily again - though as she stepped upon the docks, for the barest of moments Wyman didn’t recognise her at all.

This wasn’t just Emily putting on her Empress face; this  _ was _ Empress Emily Kaldwin the First. Emily wasn’t taller, precisely, but something about the way she held herself - shoulders pushed further back, her chin tilted upwards, her eyes firm and her jaw set tightly - took Wyman aback. She wore the smartly-tailored outfit she favoured before the coup, a suit that emulated the style of Jessamine Kaldwin, but the shade was darker and the cut was darker, almost creating the impression of a military uniform. Around her left hand she there was a black band, just like the one Lord Attano wore. A band of mourning, he called it when Wyman queried about it.

There was certainly plenty to mourn these days.

“I hope you haven’t been sitting here this whole time pining for me, Your Imperial Majesty,” Wyman said, approaching the Empress with a smirk.

Emily raised her eyebrows. “Were you due to arrive?” she replied mildly. “I didn’t realise. I was only here to see my father off.”

“Now, really, Emily - do try harder to make up excuses. Even a child wouldn’t fall for  _ that _ one.”

“Oh, so you don’t believe I’ve just sent him off to take charge of Serkonos?”

“I believe it would probably have taken at  _ least _ ten sleep darts.”

Emily laughed, but something about it didn’t sound the way it used to. Not forced; just… not truly joyful. “I thought about it,” Emily admitted, her voice light but a strain in her tone. “But in the end he went of his own mostly free will.”

Though Emily had mentioned it in her last letter, Wyman still found the idea of Corvo Attano leaving Dunwall - and his daughter, so soon after recent events -  _ highly  _ improbable and more than a little surreal, and almost opened her mouth to joke that Emily must have found some truly scandalous blackmail. But then she stopped, noticing the crease in Emily’s forehead and the way she held herself, tall but just a bit too tensely, the same way she always looked on the anniversaries of her mother’s death.

_ Oh, _ Wyman realised. The Lord Protector, she knew, would not have gone without a fight - would not have simply walked away from the only person in this world he cared about. Not unless Emily had made an incredibly difficult decision, which was hurting her as much as it no doubt wounded Attano.  _ Oh, Emily _ . With an aching heart, Wyman pulled Emily into a hug.

Emily stiffened in shock as though stunned by the sudden physical contact - or more worryingly, stunned that the contact was not intended to harm - then slowly relaxed into the embrace, her arms coming around Wyman and gripping tightly, resting her head against Wyman’s shoulder as she allowed herself to be held.

Wyman had missed this. She’d missed being able to embrace Emily like this, the way they used to after so many years of patiently waiting for Emily to feel comfortable with her. She remembered the first time she held Emily, capturing her lips softly late one night years ago, tucked away in her safe room. They were both younger then - giddy with tentative curiosity. Holding Emily now brought back all of those memories, but Wyman was struck with a startled sense that Emily wasn’t the same Empress she’d left behind. While Emily had always been a fit woman from the training she did with Lord Attano, beneath her hands Wyman could feel a firm muscle tone that wasn’t there before. She was more tense - and had not been embraced in far, far too long.

Wyman held her tighter. “You made the right choice, Empress,” she murmured, and felt Emily tremble in her arms.

After what felt like an age and not enough time at all, Emily breathed hard and pulled back, becoming Empress Emily Kaldwin once more, plastering a brave smile upon her face. 

“I ought to return to the Tower,” she said, escorting Wyman as she made her way off the dock. “I have to meet my new parliament soon.”

As they walked together, Wyman moved to offer her arm to Emily, but noticed her right hand straying to her left where it fiddled with the band identical to the one her father wore. No doubt she was thinking about him.

“That sounds like… fun,” Wyman drawled, and to her delight, Emily’s smile turned real for a moment, her hand falling.

“Oh, the best,” Emily agreed wryly.

“Well, I have no plans,” Wyman said casually, offering her arm to Emily. Emily grinned, and looped her arm through Wyman’s. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble for me to accompany you.”

Emily didn’t need to say ‘thank you’, or ‘please’, or ‘I would like that’. Wyman could already see the gratitude and relief in her gaze.

“I missed you,” Emily said.

"I missed you, too,” Wyman said. She pressed a swift kiss to Emily’s cheek, and wished she could do more. 

* * *

Wyman wasn’t alarmed. 

Alarmed was what she felt when receiving the news in Morley that Emily had been cast from her throne; a split second of abject terror, fear for her beloved’s life, combined with utter confusion. Alarm was an emotion she reserved for circumstances that affected her in some personal manner. Watching Emily’s new parliament introduce themselves to their newly reinstated Empress was not alarming; it was merely…  _ concerning _ . 

One would have had to have been deaf, dumb and blind to not hear of the fate of the previous parliament, even from the far corners of Morley. As tiresome as most of Emily’s late ministers had been, Wyman didn’t think any of them deserved to be burned alive.

Well.  _ Most _ of them hadn’t.

Especially considering the fact that half of their replacements were old, ancient creatures that could give the Outsider himself a run for his money for how long they’d been around. Retired ministers from Jessamine’s reign or even as far back as the old Emperor, their skin spotted with age and their eyes clouded with cataracts. Those who didn’t look as though they were on the verge of death were practically children. Younger siblings and junior undersecretaries of the former ministers, stepping into the vast, scorched gap Delilah had left behind her.

“This,” Emily said, quietly so that only Wyman could hear her, “is  _ not _ promising.”

Wyman agreed. Delilah’s attempt at governance  _ still _ puzzled her. A coven of witches was all well and good - certainly Wyman could think of worse things than to be surrounded by young, politically-alternative women who preferred the company of other women - but how in the world had Delilah planned to maintain her rule without a government theoretically representative of the people? Or was her goal simply to destroy the whole place, one cobbled street stone at a time? None of it made any sense - certainly not to Wyman’s political sensibilities.

Perhaps therein lay the issue. If she wanted to understand, she’d have to become a heretic, though to her knowledge that usually came hand in hand with destitution, insanity and a public execution. Wyman cared little for any of those circumstances to befall her.

Fortunately, Emily had - unlike her deranged aunt - had the good sense to offer amnesty to the guards who had deserted, even going so far as to pay them from the royal reserves while the bureaucracy pulled itself back together, like a museum piecing together the bleached-white incomplete skeleton of a great leviathan dredged up from the bottom of the ocean.

She focused her attention on Emily as she smiled and greeted each new minister in turn. The sense that there was something different about her struck Wyman again as she watched her, but what precisely was difficult to pinpoint. It was as though she was trying to focus on an optical illusion and for the barest of moments seeing the hidden picture before it slipped from sight again.

During the years of being Emily’s consort, Wyman had witnessed no fewer than three assassination attempts on Emily’s life - and after each, Emily became more serious and haunted, her eyes lost to memories of witnessing her mother’s death. Surviving a coup didn’t just make Emily more serious, and hadn’t  _ just _ darkened her eyes with despair and exhaustion. But whatever the change - whatever the deep, fundamental alteration that Emily had undergone that she either could not or would not admit to - it was obvious that the last several months had taken a severe toll on the Empress.

She wondered if Emily had smiled at all during those months.

Wyman leaned over between the ministers being introduced. “If you want, we could always steal a parliament of owls from the Royal Aviary instead,” she whispered. “They’d probably be just as qualified.” 

The corner of Emily’s mouth twitched sharply, but she restrained a laugh and instead her elbow landed swiftly in Wyman’s stomach, not quite knocking the breath out of her.

_ Oof _ . Wyman hadn’t imagined it - Emily  _ was  _ stronger now than she had been before the coup. She grinned, hiding it behind her pearl fan.

“Tell me you know who I’m dealing with,” Emily murmured, not quite pleading.

Wyman plastered a smile on her face as the next crotchety old minister made his way over. “Hmm,” she said. “Some of them, perhaps?”

Emily gave her a  _ look _ .   
  
“What?” Wyman said. “I only  _ act  _ like I know everything, dearest.”

Emily smiled, but turned serious again. “I’m going to need your help,” she said.

Emily only needed to ask - and even without the request, Wyman would have done it for her anyway. 

From the moment Wyman had met Emily, she had sensed something different about the young Empress. Something that set her aside from the usual bickering, ambitious and morally fickle nobility, who saw the world as a board and the people upon it pieces to be moved and tormented for their own benefit. While it was not an especially charming world, it was the world Wyman herself was born into - a world she knew better than the back of her own hand and was more than comfortable competing in.

But Emily didn’t see a game. Emily looked at the world and instead of seeing either a den of opulence or a pit of despair and disease, she saw a tragic responsibility. The last gift Jessamine Kaldwin imparted to her.

Even after all these years, Wyman struggled to understand why Emily bothered at all. But seeing her again now in her realm, enduring these meetings and stepping up once more to the throne that had caused her so much pain and grief, she knew she could not let Emily fight this battle alone. Curious, how the woman she was in love with could inspire that in her.

Although it  _ was _ very tempting to hop on the next ship to Cullero with Emily and elope.

“Lord Anthony Hallweard. Prime Minister during the time of Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin,” Wyman murmured, lowering her voice as the minister approached. “Retired before the plague. Released several essays afterwards blaming most of Dunwall’s troubles on Jessamine’s ill-advised ‘modernisation’ of the throne. Most likely will be provisionally elected as the new Prime Minister.”

Emily did a remarkable job in restraining a grimace, Wyman thought, but she knew her beloved too well to miss the slight crinkle of her nose as she greeted former Prime Minister Hallweard. He grasped Emily’s hand and bowed to kiss her signet ring.

“Empress,” he said, rising. Wyman was surprised she didn’t hear his back crack. “How terrible that this misfortune that befell our city has necessitated my return to parliament.”

“Lord Hallweard,” Emily said. “Thank you for stepping forward in Dunwall’s hour of need. I understand you are likely to be provisionally elected as my Prime Minister.”

“Indeed so,” he replied. “I served your grandfather in his time. A simpler, refined age that respected tradition.”

“It’s true that recent years have been trying for our Empire,” Emily agreed diplomatically, much to Wyman’s delight. “But with the provisional parliament and the High Oracle’s advice, I have faith that we can guide Dunwall through this dark time.”

“Hmm,” Lord Hallweard said, his mouth a thin, deeply unimpressed line. “I fear most of Dunwall’s trials could have been avoided if your mother had followed Emperor Euhorn’s example more than she eschewed it.”

Emily’s own lips pressed together tightly. “My mother was a fair and wise Empress, Lord Hallweard.”

“She was certainly  _ spirited _ ,” Hallweard said, a slight huff to his long-suffering tone. “I recall she had a  _ unique _ perspective about the monarchy’s place and duties, which I saw reflected in your first reign, Empress.”

What the old man lacked in physicality, he made up for with a verbal punch. Wyman felt Emily tense beside her, drawing herself up in anger, only to catch herself by breathing in steadily.

“But the past may be put behind us now, Your Majesty,” Hallweard continued before Emily could speak, either not noticing or not caring that he’d deeply insulted her. He took on a paternally condescending tone now, as though she were his disobedient, disgruntled granddaughter who just told him she wanted cake for every meal instead of his Empress who had single-handedly brought down Delilah’s tyrannical reign. “I guided your grandfather through many of his years; I look forward to guiding you.”

Emily stared at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving and more than a little bit angry. 

“May I take the moment to formally introduce my new Political Adviser, Lady Angelica Wyman?” Emily said, tone just a little too sharp, and turned towards Wyman.

Wyman’s eyebrows shot up, as did Hallweard’s, which she was impressed to see did not send him flying head over heels backwards with how much force the frail, elderly man put into that gesture.

“Lady Wyman of… Morley, I believe,” Hallweard said slowly, speaking the name of Wyman’s country of birth as one would treat a puddle of mud on a silk carpet. “Political Adviser. I… see.”  He sounded faint, as though mentally disassociating himself from the madness of youth to recall that simpler, more refined age.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Hallweard,” Wyman said, not missing a beat, and dipped into a curtsey.

“Lady Wyman will ensure that I am kept politically informed at all times,” Emily said, a terse smile upon her face. “I recall my grandfather worked very closely with his parliament and ministers. I’m certain he would approve.”

“Hmm,” Hallweard said, probably imagining Euhorn rolling in his grave. “I  _ greatly _ look forward to guiding you in the upcoming years.”

_ Years? _ Did the old coot think he was going to last that long? She shared a look with Emily, who seemed to be restraining the same incredulity.

The rest of the introductions passed without incident.  Wyman paid attention peripherally; making a note of the list of names in the back of her mind, separating them into groups of 'interesting', 'boring' and 'investigate later', while the front of her mind teemed with  _ possibilities.  _ Consort and now Political Adviser to the Empress of the Isles.

“I graciously accept your generous offer of a position, Empress,” Wyman said, biting down on an amused smile the moment they were out of earshot of the Juvenile-Geriatric Brigade. “Though perhaps next time you could tell me  _ beforehand _ ?”

“You did offer your assistance, Lady Wyman.” Emily smirked. “Maybe I just wanted to see the look on your face when you learned you actually have to work for a living now,”

Wyman laughed. “You mentioned the High Oracle earlier,” she added.

“Yes,” Emily replied. “I had the…  _ pleasure  _ of meeting her yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“It was very interesting,” Emily said. “Have you met her before?”

“Yes,” Wyman said. “Once when I was young. She’s…” She struggled to think of the best way to encapsulate the High Oracle in a phrase, but in the end could only come up with: “Blunt.”

Emily was unable to restrain a snort, which she quickly smothered.

Wyman glanced down to reach for Emily’s grasp, and noticed that the Empress was once again fidgeting with the black band around her left hand. But no sooner than she’d looked down, Emily clenched her fist and dropped it by her side - a little  _ too _ firmly.

“Come, Lady Wyman,” Emily said, making Wyman look back up to meet her eyes. “I believe you have an Empress to politically advise.”

“ _ Just _ advise?” Wyman said coyly, quirking an eyebrow.

“Of course, Lady Wyman,” Emily said, half a beat later, mockingly scandalised. “It’s been  _ months _ . We have so terribly much to catch up on.”

The words were all correct; the twist of her lips, the lightly teasing tone. It was all there. But there was something in the way Emily held herself back - not quite meeting Wyman step-for-step in their private dance, not completely meeting her eyes - that made Wyman frown, until Emily cleared her throat and reached for her hand with determination, and grinned.

Wyman grinned back. There was nothing wrong, she assured herself as she allowed Emily to lead her away. But even after they’d found privacy together and steadily, desperately relearned each other’s aching mouths, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something in Emily’s touch, Emily’s smile, was just a little bit… off. Still, that was to be expected. Anyone would be awkward after months of separation and the small matter of a coup and retaking two cities. It was understandable. Emily had a lot on her mind.

Still.


End file.
